


They Call Him The Winter Soldier

by Katefkndoes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Author has seen the movie, Gen, Identity Issues, Possible spoilers for Cap 2, Slash if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:12:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katefkndoes/pseuds/Katefkndoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The soldier struggles to define himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Call Him The Winter Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> After seeing the new Cap film the other day I just couldn't help but write this. All the mistakes are my own. I'm not entirely sure that it makes complete sense because I wrote most of it at 1am after the screening, but I figured I might as well post. 
> 
> There are inherently spoilers for the movie, but no more than if you have read or have any knowledge of The Winter Soldier arc.

James Barnes.  James Buchanan Barnes. 

He stares into the mirror.

“Bucky,” he tries the name out. “Bucky, Bucky… Barnes.”  His eyebrows knit together as he struggles to remember.  He’s not stupid – no matter how many times they fried his brain – he knows well enough that he is the man from the museum exhibit.  Besides, it hardly took a genius to see the similarity between the face in the mirror and the ‘late’ sergeant.  Nevertheless, he’d acquired a picture of the Howling Commandos and had spent hours staring at it, in the run-down motel in which he’d sought shelter.

Part of him had known, of course, before he had even seen a picture.  There was a niggling familiarity to the Captain, something that twisted in his gut and clawed its way past the mission that had been planted in his head.  Between the constant blood red of his past missions there appeared small cracks of something strange.

“James Barnes.”  He says again, trying to spark any kind of memory, any kind of emotion, but it’s been forever and he doesn’t remember what it feels like to be that man.

He closes his eyes and tries to remember, but all he gets are snatched seconds of someone else’s life.  It’s like playing a scratched record, the images and conversations skip until they make his head hurt and _still_ there is nothing tangible to cling to.  His arm – the metal one – jerks out irrationally and smashes the mirror, but the broken shards only serve as a materialist representation of his fractured soul.  If he remembered how to laugh he’d probably be doing so – he was a killing machine not a poet. 

Suddenly, the room becomes too much and he knows he can’t stay there any longer.  He has to escape. The sky is a clear blue like he can’t remember seeing before; it serves to give him flashes of a smaller man throughout the years.  Fragments of a past he can’t remember – and probably never will.  He feels the overwhelming urge to escape, to run away and hide from the world, but he knows if he does the curiosity will eat him alive.  He doesn’t remember feeling this close to remembering – but then again, he doesn’t remember a whole lot.  Nothing really, except for carnage, bloodshed and pain.

There’s a swell of something inside him, something rips at his core and he lurches forward, vomit spewing from his lips.  He stares at the colorless bile for a few moments, trying to calm the twisting inside.  It hurts, but he understands his body and he knows it’s not a physical pain.  He feels the blackness spreading across his body; he supposes its hatred, although he can’t categorize the feeling for definite.

He looks to the sky and screams.  Encasing his head in his hands trying to protect himself from the partially formed pieces of information, which are penetrating the void inside him.  A moment passes, and a crowd forms in the near distance.  Instinctually, he knows he has to move, to get out of there and disappear back into the shadows.  With a look back at the small group he heads off back towards the city. 

No one follows.

Several hours pass, and he finds himself sitting outside the apartment he had shot to pieces only a few days before.  The lights are on, and there’s a strange pull towards the occupant.  Steven Grant Rogers.  He pulls the name from somewhere, he supposes it was detailed in the museum but, then again he paid little attention to anything apart from his own face staring back at him from so long ago, so maybe it was something he remembered from before.  He’s not sure, which just makes one more thing he’s not certain about.

He watches Rogers come and go.  The blond has assimilated well; a casual glance would reveal nothing but a young man going about his daily business.  But he knows, somehow he knows that the Captain is almost as screwed up as he is.  It’s nothing he can explain, but he just _knows_ things aren’t quite what they seem.

Three days pass, and he can’t even summon the energy to move anymore.  He lies on his back and stares at the, once more, clear blue sky.  It’s so simple, so pure, and he doesn’t have to concern himself with anything but the occasional bird flying overhead.  He doesn’t have to think about all the training he received.  Or how part of him, wants to kill Rogers and complete his mission but another wants to talk to Steve and learn about their past.  About Bucky – the man he was.

But the name still sounds so foreign to him.

He’s so far gone – drifting in and out of consciousness – between images of laughter and smiles interspersed with death and destruction, that he’s not sure if the man in front of him is real or his mind playing tricks on him.  He blinks twice, and tries to drag himself to his feet.  The only strength he has left is in his metal arm, so, instead he contents himself with propping himself up to gain a better vantage.

“Bucky?”  Steve asks softly, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace.  He opens his mouth, but no words come out.  He can’t answer to that name, it’s not his yet.  It might never be.

He falls back to the ground, defeated.

Steve gives up the notion of keeping his distance and rushes forward.

“Buck.”  He feels himself being shaken and before he knows what he’s doing his hand is crushing the Captain’s throat.  He tilts his head to the side, not missing the look of surprise that passes over his erstwhile friend’s face.  “Buck… I can’t.”  Steve struggles out and looks at him desperately as his hands close around the arm.  He knows that the blond will break the arm if he has to, but he’s also aware that Steve doesn’t want to hurt him – as if that were a possibility.  He’s not sure he can really feel anything anymore.

He drops the hand, and Steve takes several gulps of air, eyeing him carefully.

“Why are you alive?”  He says emotionlessly.  It’s a valid question, but Rogers seems slightly taken aback by it.

“I was frozen.”  The soldier replies, as though there could be no other reason, but volunteers no further details.  He has questions about that, but he remembers being frozen himself so maybe that’s what everyone does these days. 

Somehow, he doubts it. 

Steve frowns.  “Buck… I…” he sighs, and shakes his head.  “You’re hurt.” 

“I don’t feel it.”  He replies matter-of-factly.  It’s not true, for the first time in a long time he feels something, but it’s not a physical ache.

“You can trust me Buck.  Just let me make sure you’re okay.  I don’t mind.  I just…” Steve drags a large hand through his uncharacteristically short hair– and why does he remember that when he can’t remember he’s supposed to be?  “I need to know you’re okay, Bucky.”

“I’m not Bucky.”  He replies harshly.  “I don’t know who I am,” he adds, softly after a beat.  Steve looks downright dejected – like the first time he got rejected from the army – and he doesn’t want to see that look on his face.  “I…” His head is pounding and all he can see are more flashes of someone else’s life and the thrill of each kill shooting through his veins.  “I know you, but I don’t… I’m not…” he struggles to express himself.  “I’m not him.  I – I don’t know if I’ll ever be.”  He forces himself to sit up, and Steve takes a step back holding his hands up once more. 

“I know you, and you gotta remember me. I – I can’t lose you again, Punk.”  Steve takes a step forward and offers out his hand.

“Jerk,” he replies reflexively.  Steve smiles, the happiness making his eyes appear even bluer than the impossible sky.  He takes the proffered hand and allows Steve to pull him to his feet.  As they walk across the rooftop Steve takes most of his weight as though he weighs nothing.  They’ve been here before, he thinks, but the memory is fleeting and not completely formed.  The metal arm is around the blond’s neck, and if he wanted to he could get this right now.  But despite a slight twitch, his arm remains still.

Rogers makes him drink, gives him some food and watches intently as he eats.  It’s like being back in the lab, but he can’t remember any of the Doctors looking at him with so much concern.  All he wants to do in that moment is wipe that look off his face.  It’s fleeting but there is something inside him that he can’t control.

He knows then, that he can’t stay here – it’s not safe, _he’s_ not safe – but he doesn’t think that Steve realizes yet.  Hell, he’s not sure he realized to that moment.

“I’ll get you some clothes, you can take the bed.”  Steve says, as though it’s only naturally to invite a killer into your home, and retreats to the bedroom.  He seizes his chance and makes his escape, leaving nothing but a scrap of paper in his wake.  He knows that Steve will be upset, but even if he doesn’t know who he is, he knows _what_ he is.  He’s half monster, half man.  But even if his brain is scrambled, he knows that Steve won’t see that.

He watches from the roof as Steve discovers he’s missing.  He watches the look of pure disappointment pass over his features and feels his jaw clench.  He watches as Rogers reads the paper he left secured to the wall with a knife.

_40.7057° N, 73.9964° W. 06/30/14 12.00_

He’s given himself three months to find some semblance of control – to reach equilibrium.   Every time he looks at Steve, he feels a jolt of emotions that he’s simply not equipped to process.  And just about the only thing he’s sure of, is that he doesn’t want to hurt the blond.

With baffling speed, Steve looks up from the note and makes deliberate eye contact with him despite the distance.  The Captain looks resigned, but not angry, and makes no motion to chase him down.  Instead, Steve raises his hand to his temple in a salute, and nods to confirm his understanding of the message.

When James, Barnes, Bucky, the Winter Soldier, or whoever he is, walks away into the night, he does so with a new mission.


End file.
